See, I’d done a bit of calendar calculating. I knew that, instead of finishing up with the Blue Ridge Parkway at Smoky Mountain National Park by the end of September, now we wouldn’t arrive until mid-October. That – according to my research – put us in the Smokies at peak leaf-changing season.

If there was a silver lining to Phoenix’ leg break, that was it. At least that was how I tried to console myself after the accident. I imagined all the breathtaking panoramas and all the stunning shots Bruno would capture that I, of course, would showcase boastfully on this blog.

Things didn’t turn out that way. The fall colors weren’t there yet. We were too early.

At the end of the Blue Ridge Parkway, with a lovely view behind, but no fall colors!

Our final campground on the BRP, surrounded by barely-changing leaves.

Baby’s first taste of fall.

A hike on the BRP.

It had been an unseasonably warm summer and fall in the region. Though there were many dead leaves scattered on the ground, and a few yellowing here and there, it was obviously that, even though mid-October is generally peak fall colors time in the Smokies, this year we were a week or two too early.

Usually, this wouldn’t be a problem for us. We generally have a pretty flexible schedule. But, with our US visa almost up, Mexico still oh-so-far away, and transit travel less than pleasant with a baby, we didn’t have the luxury of hanging around the Smokies any longer. Not to mention, I was able to snag a reservation for the last spot in the campground, available for a total of three nights. By Friday, the weekenders would be in and we were booted out.

Still, we were in Smoky Mountain National Park – the most visited park in the United States! It was exciting to be there and I, for one, wanted to make the most of it. I suggested we drive up to the highest point in the park, where a viewing tower offered those breathtaking views – minus the fall colors – I’d been hoping for. The road up to that point changed elevation so drastically that it was the ecological equivalent of taking a drive from Georgia to Canada – super cool! We could hike a little section of the Appalachian Trail (which we hadn’t seen since Virginia) and take in one last mountain view as a perfect ending to our three months in the Appalachians.

Smokemont Campground in the Smokies – I managed to snag three nights!

Hanging out Smokemont.

Alas, things were not meant to be. The weather turned rainy and foggy mere minutes into our drive up and we could hardly see oncoming traffic, let alone panoramic views.

Ever the optimists, we kept driving up. We parked in the slightly sloped lot at Clingman’s Dome and decided to have lunch while waiting for the fog to [hopefully] clear. We’d been there almost an hour, finishing our indoor picnic when, suddenly, I could see the trees moving past. Our bus was moving!!! Quickly, Bruno jumped into the driver’s seat and I shielded Phoenix, who was in his booster seat on the ground finishing his meal. Bruno managed to stop the bus, but not before it scraped past two parked cars.

The whole incident happened very quickly. No one was in the other cars, and none of us was hurt. It’s actually amazing because things in our bus weren’t secure – drawers weren’t locked, plates were on the counter – heck, I had even left the oil and vinegar bottles on the counter! Not a single item hit Phoenix, and he, frankly, thought our little ride was loads of fun!

We spent the next few hours dealing with insurance, park rangers, police reports, and apologies to the owners of the other vehicles. Needless to say that after all that, none of us wanted to hike up to the observation tower for a view. The weather hadn’t cleared up, anyway.

The first car we hit.

The second car we hit.

Our damage.

A bit more of our damage.

The rain continued the following day. We spent most of it inside the bus at the campground. We did manage a little stroll in the late afternoon – but no bears, no views, no leaves. The Smokies were a total bust. My blog post could not be.

A little stroll during the brief reprieve from the rain.

We caught sight of some elk early on in the Smokies, but this was as close as we got to any wildlife during our stay.

It was when we emerged from the Smoky Mountains and got a phone signal that we learned about Hurricane Michael tearing through the United States. Apart from the fact that this hurricane was devastating for so many people and communities, it actually directly affected us. After the Smokies, we’d planned to hightail it to the Florida Panhandle and spend a few weeks exploring its state parks (which offer some of the most beautiful beaches in the country – not to mention, ahem, laundry facilities!).

Since we know that the media often exaggerates news, we wondered if, perhaps, the devastation wasn’t quite as serious as it was being portrayed. Perhaps our plans wouldn’t have to change, we thought. One phone call to a single ranger at a single state park along the Panhandle confirmed that it was just as bad as on the news.

And just like that, our plans had to change. We are very lucky to have a home-on-wheels and the ability to pick it up and move it to a new, safer place when disasters like these destroy the livelihoods of so many. Driving across Alabama may not have been on my bucket list, but at least we could drive our home away from the devastation.

And, anyway, Alabama proved to be surprising. We rolled up to the Magnolia Branch Wildlife Refuge expecting to spend a transit night there before continuing toward Mississippi and onward. When we reached our campsite, though, I turned to Bruno and said, “I feel like we’re in Africa.” He looked at me, puzzled. “It doesn’t really look like Africa here,” he replied. And it didn’t. We were surrounded by some kind of pine tree, and there definitely weren’t elephants or giraffes wandering around.

Our campground in Alabama.

Lunch with a view. Way to go, Alabama!

It took me awhile to figure out why I was reminded of Africa, but I did. It was the way this campground made me feel. Because here we were, parked right – I mean right – at the edge of a little lake, on a gigantic rough patch of grass. There was hardly anyone around, tons of space, restroom facilities slightly run down. It was just the kind of campground we loved – just like the ones we often found in Africa.

It had been so long since we’d found ourselves in the type of campground. Even the ones in the national and state parks are too busy, too well-organized, too full of retirees (no offense) for our taste. Here, in Alabama, I felt like we’d slipped into a beloved well-worn pair of shoes. That had gone missing. That I’d forgotten about. And that I’d suddenly found again.

Taking a dip in the water in front of our campsite.

Mama and Papa chillin’, Africa-style.

Oh yeah, it felt that good.

Who knew, Alabama?

In all things travel – as in parenthood, I’m finding out – we have to expect the unexpected. Oftentimes, our expectations lead to disappointment; our plans have to change; and the pleasant surprises are found in the least-likely places.

Never in my wildest dreams would I have expected to pass an entire season in the Appalachian Mountains, yet here we are. The leaves do not lie. We’ve spent our summer in the Appalachians. And it was just as transformative as these leaves.

The decision to spend our summer in the Appalachians was purely practical. We were in Atlantic Canada with the goal of heading toward Mexico for the winter. The Appalachians were just sort of on the way. We could have followed the coast, but the equation of summer heat and humidity with a baby in a non-air-conditioned bus didn’t ad up.

I’d love to say the mountains were beckoning us (I could even break out in song – “the hills are alive with the sound of music”), but it wouldn’t be true. The Appalachians were simply the best option when you’ve spent a winter in Canada (who does that?) and need to head south in the heat of the summer.

As such, we had very few expectations of our summer in the mountains. We hoped to hike a bit, enjoy some nature, and stay cool. Most importantly, we wanted to get adjusted to life in our bus with a baby – no small feat.

As I shared on the blog, I was pretty anxious about moving into the bus with Phoenix. As expected, those early weeks were challenging, trying to fit life with a baby into a tiny space while dealing with the summer heat and humidity of the Northeastern US. In those moments, the Appalachians took on the lure of the promised land, and as we inched our way closer and closer (which seemed to take forever!), I could only pray they would provide us the salvation I so desperately needed.

Shenandoah National Park delivered that salvation. As we wound our way up the narrow sea of mountains, the temperature dropped to more comfortable digits. Despite being under a canopy of dense forest, we found a campsite at Big Meadows that gave our solar panels access to sunlight. There was a laundromat in the campground (yippee!) and a [meager] cell service on the edge of the cliff at the other end of the campground. We had everything we needed to set up camp.

Big Meadows Campground at Shenandoah NP.

So we set up camp we did. For a month. (I talk about this in my Vlog on Shenandoah). The only times we moved the bus were the couple of times we went to the nearest town to do groceries (each time I stuffed our bus silly with melons and squashes and potatoes to tie us over once the more perishable produce was gone) and a forced campground change fifteen days in.

It wasn’t that Shenandoah National Park was particularly amazing. Yes, the wildlife was abundant, and we thoroughly enjoyed having black bears and deer in the campground. Yes, it was great to be in nature, with fresh air, starry evenings, and the sounds of crickets rather than traffic. And yes, it was awesome to hike small sections of the epic Appalachian Trail, crossing smelly but inspiring thru-hikers (I even lent one of them my hair dryer one evening and got to hear real-life stories from the trail!)

Bears in the campground!

And these deer were our friends for, like, two whole weeks!

Getting up close with the wildlife.

Don’t worry, we kept Phoenix far away from these little babies!

The trail marking for the infamous Appalachian Trail.

But it was no Grand Canyon. Shenandoah was created with the intention of offering a national park to easterners as outstanding as all those out west. The creators purchased a narrow tract of land from mountain families (who had logged and farmed here for generations), let the land return to its wild state, and built a scenic road – called Skyline Drive – down the center of the park.

To this day, Skyline Drive is the beating heart of the park. But in our opinion, the views it offered were just average.  It’s always nice looking out from atop a mountain, but at Shenandoah, there is often a lot of haze (the park being so close to all those big coastal cities), and the view is mostly of towns and farmland rather than wilderness.

A pretty typical view from a Skyline Drive overlook.

The visibility is often poor, and the views are mostly over towns and farmland.

Also, the weather – though mercifully cooler – was still not ideal. The region had experienced its rainiest summer in years, and there were times where we were stuck in the bus all day. The rain would often come down sideways, meaning that even the space under the awning was off-limits. And between the storms, the no-see-ems were so bad they were drawing blood from my baby boy! While we were definitely grateful to have upgraded from Totoyaya (how would we have entertained Phoenix in that?), after the 6^th day of non-stop rain (and the 3^rd day of using ice to keep our perishables cold because we had no juice in the solar batteries to power our fridge anymore!), I began to wonder if Shenandoah had offered us salvation at all.

Grateful we had Big Blue instead of Totoyaya in this rain!

On a positive note, Bruno used all the rain to rig a device that refilled our water tank without having to move the bus! :)

So why did we stay an entire month, you may ask. At the time, we thought it was an issue of timing – we needed a place to park ourselves for awhile and get settled into our new home, and Shenandoah appeared at the right time. With foresight, though, I now realize it was more than that. As our Shenandoah days rolled into weeks, I felt my stress begin to ease up as we settled into our space and routine. Hiking helped. Animal-watching helped. And having the space to do nothing that only nature provides helped a lot.

And so, standing still, surrounded by nature, I was finally able to relax into motherhood. It had taken over five months.

Hiking. Sort of.

Wildlife. Sort of. :)

Relaxing into motherhood.

I think Bruno could have continued doing a whole lot of nothing for many more weeks, but eventually, my nomadic side kicked in. We’d hiked all the nearby trails, visited the Visitor’s Center exhibits, and driven up and down Skyline Drive more than once. I needed a change of neighborhoods. Plus, our list of baby-related bus tweaks was piling up. It was time to get to a city.

Bruno and I pulled out a map one evening. We can reach Asheville via the Interstate, I said, or we can take the scenic mountain view. In our pre-baby lives, this would have been a no-brainer, but now I wasn’t sure what Bruno would want to do. I wasn’t even quite sure what I wanted – to get to our destination quickly or make a trip out of the journey?

When Bruno replied that we should take the scenic route, bien sûr, I felt relief. I guess it’s what I’d wanted, too. Perhaps having a baby hadn’t changed our travel style as much as I’d been feeling since we’d hit the road?

Still, I expected our road trip down the Blue Ridge Parkway to take only a few days. I knew little about this byway apart from its name, and the minimal research I’d been able to do had come up with very few camping options.

Welcome to the Blue Ridge Parkway, one of America’s most scenic byways!

You can imagine my surprise when I realized that the Blue Ridge Parkway was a national park, too, and one that offered more infrastructure, cultural interest, and beautiful views than Shenandoah! What was meant to be a quick transit turned into a 3-week slow-travel adventure! (Bruno was grateful we had Phoenix in tow or I’d have made him stop at every overlook and every cultural or historical waypoint along the byway!)

The Blue Ridge Parkway was conceived as a scenic byway that would link Shenandoah NP to Great Smoky Mountains NP (the other National Park that was conceived for easterners to enjoy nature). While Shenandoah is one of the least-visited National Parks, the Blue Ridge Parkway is one of the most visited. But with almost 500 miles of byway, we didn’t feel the crowds (I’m told that most visit in the fall for the colorful foliage) and we had campgrounds almost entirely to ourselves

The campgrounds. Basic, yes, but I loved them. There are several of them, interspersed at perfect driving distances along the parkway. I didn’t have to think about researching our next stop or reserving something ahead – we’d just show up at the end of our day’s drive, pick an available spot, and park ourselves there as long as we wanted! We were even given travel pamphlets at the beginning of our road trip that told us what mile marker we’d find each campground and at what elevation it sat – perfect for us, since we were still trying to remain on higher grounds for little Phoenix.

Breakfast at one of the BRP’s campgrounds.

Cultural interest all along the parkway.

Each campground offered something of interest for us, whether it be a hiking trail, a waterfall, a historic mountain cabin or a lake. We stayed at five campgrounds, and I made sure to do one special thing at each of them. My favorite of all was probably the first – Peaks of Otter Campground. I hiked to the top of Sharp Top Mountain all by myself one afternoon. A solo outing, in itself, was an amazing rush, but combine that with the endorphins of an intense hike and the best views I’d seen yet that and it’s little wonder that it was my favorite mini Parkway adventure (sorry Bruno and Phoenix!).

An intense but rewarding hike up to Sharp Top Mountain.

Feeling SO good after this solo hike!

The historic Mabry Mill along the BRP.

Even better than that hike, though, was the Parkway’s cultural link to the region. I’d been missing that in Shenandoah National Park. On the Blue Ridge Parkway, there were cabins describing the ways mountain people used to live, a folk art center, a historic mill, and a music center. We were lucky to arrive at Mabry Mill on a Sunday, the day that local musicians get together for an afternoon jam session, complete with flat foot dancing (which is like tap dancing with clogs). The sun was shining, the quaint, wholesome ambience was perfect, and Phoenix was in a great mood to experience his first ever concert. I brought him right up close to the action, and he was absolutely mesmerized, especially by the dancers! It was a special moment for me as a new mom.

Mountain music and flat foot dancing – you can’t get any more Appalachian than that!

The very talented mountain musicians at Mabry Mill.

Phoenix was absolutely mesmerized by the whole thing, especially the dancers!

We got right up close, and it was so cool!

I hadn’t known how important music is to the people here. We learned about the history of mountain music (which is the original American music and influenced bluegrass, country, blues, and rock ‘n roll!) and saw another afternoon concert at the Blue Ridge Music Center. But it wasn’t until the following day at our campground, when locals camping near us invited us to their impromptu jam session, that I truly saw how music is in the bones of the Appalachian people.

Mountain music at the Blue Ridhe Music Center.

An impromptu mountain music jam session at our campground!

That’s what I loved best about the Blue Ridge Parkway – I got to learn about the Appalachian people. Yes, I was traveling with a baby and so didn’t spend as much time delving into their culture as I might have a year ago, but even scraping the surface felt like a miracle to me after spending the previous seven months in full-time motherhood.

Just as our two-night stay at the Mohonk Mountain House with my Aunt Louise back in June taught me that I can have a relaxing and fun holiday with a baby (surprise!), our summer in the Appalachians taught me a few important lessons about my new life as a mom. Shenandoah National Park gave me the space and time to unwind and settle into life in the bus with a baby, showing me that, as long as we take the time to move slowly through the world, bus life with a baby can work. And driving down the Blue Ridge Parkway showed me that I can still be a tourist – traveling, discovering, learning, and having adventures – with baby in tow, and that each little moment of discovery will be all the more precious because of that baby!

The mountains we’ve called home this summer are changing before our very eyes. As we experience a new side to these mountains, I’m noticing a new side to myself – one that feels rested, hopeful, and confident that life on the road with a baby can work. I’d come to these green mountains hoping for hikes, nature, and cool weather, and in the end received so much more. Maybe the Appalachians had been beckoning me after all.

“Due to unfortunate circumstances this vehicle was rolled in Nashville TN. I’m a cruiser lover and purchased it. While having other intentions with the vehicle, my wife promptly informed me that the vehicle has a new destiny. She fell in love with the truck and we are going to bring it back to life. Totoyaya will live on. I will keep you guys posted of the progress.”

Huh?!?!?!?

Last we’d heard Totoyaya had been slowly making her way from Dallas toward Boston, with a pit-stop in Asheville, North Carolina to attend the Overland Expo. The previous spring, we’d finally parted ways with our beloved home-on-wheels, selling her on to a guy named Amir from Boston, who had plans to bring her to Alaska, and eventually, through China and Pakistan, his home land.

Handing over Totoyaya’s keys to Amir last March.

Off they go, to new adventures!

Bon voyage Totoyaya and Amir!

Mind you, we hadn’t heard from Amir since September. I’d often wondered how he was getting on with his new rig – and when he was really going to hit the road with Totoyaya. See, last March, he’d flown out from Boston to pick her up in Tucson, but was only able to drive her as far as Dallas before catching a flight back to his family and work. Those responsibilities kept Amir away from Totoyaya for the next five months.

So when we heard in the fall that Amir was headed back to Dallas to finally bring her home, we were relieved. Finally, Totoyaya would be back on the road where she belonged!

Fall turned into winter and our pregnancy, trip to France, and temporary move to Nova Scotia, became the forefront of our thoughts. In our minds, Totoyaya was safely tucked away in Boston, awaiting the adventures spring would bring.

It turns out that Totoyaya never made it to Boston. She never even made it to Asheville. While driving toward the Overland Expo, Amir was run off the road by another vehicle. Totoyaya rolled, and the cell where Bruno and I had lived for five years was destroyed.

Totoyaya minus her cell.

The side of her that got rolled.

We were shocked. In twenty years, Totoyaya had never gotten so much as a scrape (apart from during off-roading mishaps), and here she was… almost totalled.

Emails bounced back and forth between me and Chad, the apparent new owner of our poor, beloved vehicle. As the shock subsided, relief set in. Totoyaya would be saved! Chad was a Land Cruiser restorer, and thanks to his wife, he would restore Totoyaya and eventually take his family on adventures! This is exactly what we had always wanted for Totoyaya – it was the reason we wrote on our for-sale ad that we would only sell to travelers, and why we’d felt comfortable selling to Amir. Totoyaya deserved an owner who would love her, who would give her a second life, who’d allow her to continue fulfilling her destiny.

Bless this woman, who allowed Totoyaya to have a second chance!

Almost two more months passed – a blur of nursing, changing and teaching Phoenix to sleep. Our minds didn’t wander to Totoyaya often, but when they did, we felt at peace. We’d moved on, and she was in good hands.

So, again, you can understand our shock, when, while (again) sat in the armchair of our living room nursing Phoenix, I received a message from a Chilean guy who’d been an admirer of Totoyaya ever since he’d seen her initial for-sale post eighteen months before.

It was a screen shot of the Toyota Land Cruiser Association Facebook group. A for-sale post. Written by Chad. Selling Totoyaya.

What?!?!?!?!?

I immediately shot an email off to Chad. What’s this about? Why are you selling Totoyaya? What happened to your restoration plans? What’s going on?!?!?!

Twenty minutes later, a reply: The rebuild was off. Chad and his wife were going to be opening a restaurant, and didn’t have the time or resources to undertake the work required to build Totoyaya 2.0

Chad was selling Totoyaya. Without a title (Amir hadn’t given him the documents, apparently). To the first buyer willing to pay.

The Chilean guy told me he’d buy it. He loved Totoyaya’s story and would love to rebuild her. He’d already contacted a friend who could import her, and he had a shipping agent who could get it to Argentina. He just needed a title.

We immediately sent an email to Amir, updating him on the situation and pleading with him to send us all the paperwork he had for Totoyaya.

Two days passed. Amir didn’t reply. I reached back out to the Chilean guy, asking him if he could do anything without the title. I logged onto Facebook to glance at Chad’s for-sale ad. It had been updated – and now stated that Totoyaya was also for sale on eBay.

Oh-no. eBay?!?! There aren’t a whole lot of overlanders searching for cool vehicles to rebuild on eBay – only scalpers eager for parts off old vehicles. If Chad sold the vehicle on eBay, Totoyaya would be broken down for her spare parts!! I couldn’t imagine a more horrible ending to this epic, beloved vehicle. Someone HAD to save her!!!

Just as uttered those thoughts, my phone vibrated with a new email. From Chad.

I didn’t want to open it. Somehow I knew what that email would say.

“I am sorry to inform you that the truck will be a donor for his iron pig.”

My breath caught in my throat.

“Think of it like a transplant,” the email continued. “The heart will live on”.

My own heart dropped.

“I am keeping both front doors. I consider them art and they will be hanging in my garage.”

So that’s it. Totoyaya is gone. She was broken down into parts about a month ago. Her cell is in pieces in a garbage dump in Tennessee; her Petit Prince doors hanging in some guy’s garage who doesn’t even understand the meaning of the art he exhibits; her engine transplanted into god-knows what vehicle. And the rest, well, I have no idea where the rest of Totoyaya is.

Totoyaya’s cell in bits and pieces at a junk yard in Tennessee.

Someone who actually understood the words of Le Petit Prince wouldn’t have sold Totoyaya to the first buyer…

For twenty years, Totoyaya served Bruno faithfully. She was more than a vehicle. More, even, than a home. She was the manifestation of his childhood dream. The physical symbol of his freedom.

She was the reason Bruno and I met. The nest where we fell in love. Where we dreamed dreams. Planned our future. She’s the very reason we now have a baby called Phoenix.

Yes, we will always hold her in our hearts. Yes, I know I’ll always have the memories.

Yes, yes, I know she’s just a thing.

But she didn’t deserve this end. She had so much more life to give. She could have been the bearer of memories and dreams and futures for someone else. She could have meant someone else’s freedom.

Had I know, a year ago, when we tearfully sent her off to Amir in Tucson, that this would be her end, I’d have shed twice as many tears.

Rest in peace, Totoyaya. We will never forget you, and are so grateful for all that you have given us.

Totoyaya’s first trip around the world, pictured here in Northern Kenya.

And here, among the Touareg of Mali, where there was also a famous Touareg Petit Prince.

Bruno, always so meticulous with Totoyaya.

Totoyaya gaining a new passenger, and offering me experiences I’d only ever dreamed of!

Totoyaya, the backdrop of a true love story.

Happy New Year from our family to yours!

The game (or “exercise,” as my parents insist we call it) works like this: each person writes 10 predictions for the upcoming year.  It can be about oneself, loved ones, or the wider world.  We share our predictions aloud then fold them up and put them all away until the following New Year’s Eve.  365 days later – having inevitably forgotten all our predictions – we revisit them as a group and see how many we’d gotten right.

This “exercise” inevitably leads to conversions about the upcoming year (there are mutterings of plans, goals and hopes), but also reflections on the year we are bidding farewell to.  This is what I like best about our Predictions exercise – the reflection it fosters.

So now I write one of my personal favourite posts to write – because of the reflection it incites – A Year in Review.

2017, you have certainly been… well, interesting.  Different, for sure.

The theme of the year for Bruno and me?  Change.

Our year began with the purchase of a big blue shuttle bus.  After months of searching for a new home-on-wheels, this purchase couldn’t have come too soon.  It also meant, though, that we had a very big project ahead of us: that of converting our new vehicle from a 26-seat shuttle bus into our new home.

Our new Big Blue Bus next to our now-sold but much-beloved Totoyaya.

Thus began a totally unique period in our lives.  Travel ceased entirely.  We moved into a series of rental homes (in Phoenix, Tucson, and Baja California) while, for over three months, we ate, breathed and lived Project Bus Conversion.  It was one of the most challenging things either of us has ever done, and even though we stopped working full-time on the bus almost eight months ago, whenever I reminisce on spring 2017, I get a very visceral full-body shutter.  You can read more about our bus conversion here, here, and here.

Bruno and a HelpX volunteer building our new home-on-wheels.

Our bus conversion, essentially finished and ready for the road!

Perhaps that is why our two-month North American road trip was a momentous time for us.  We were finally free, on the road again!  Not only that, but we were testing out Big Blue.  Though we missed Totoyaya at times (like when we wanted to park in cities, fuel-up at the gas station, or go off-road without getting stuck), we quickly appreciated the space and comfort of Big Blue.  Bruno had done an amazing job with the construction, and my design (especially of the kitchen!) was pretty darn good, too!

During the US portion of our road trip, we drove up through Arizona, Utah, Wyoming, and Montana, visiting a few national parks along the way.  It was a total tease because we had such limited time, but it sure got me pumped about returning one day very soon.

Enjoying our first dinner in Big Blue! Yippee, we’re on the road!!

SOOOO happy to be on the road again! (Here in Sedona, Arizona).

Enjoying our inaugural road trip in Big Blue!

We crossed into Canada, slowed down, and did an 8-week cross-Canadian road trip (which had us visiting even more national parks, whale-watching along the St. Lawrence, being in the country’s capital for the lead up to Canada’s 150^th birthday celebrations, and reaching Land’s End in the Gaspé Peninsula).  You can read about that road trip here and here.

It was at the very beginning of that road trip that we got the craziest and most amazing news of the year – that we were pregnant!  See, I told you 2017 was the year of change!

Amazing view from our “campsite” overlooking the St. Lawrence River!

Two happy travelers (and parents to be!)

We went on one last road trip – this one to Nova Scotia with both our families – but otherwise, we opted to put Big Blue to rest for now, maximize our time at home with family, and prepare as best we could for the upcoming new addition to our family.  This meant spending a couple of months with my parents in their New Brunswick home (thank you, mom and dad!) and then a couple of months in France near Bruno’s family (where I got to reunite with my two best girlfriends for an epic Euro-trip).  Last month, we moved into a home in Nova Scotia for the winter, which is where we will welcome our new baby in exactly (because it’s an exact science!) one month from today.

Our three-RV family road trip through Nova Scotia.

Ahhh… summer family reunions!

One 2016 trend seemed to continue through 2017 – that of living in homes.   In 2017, we spent exactly three months traveling overland, and 9 of them living in various homes.  While I can say that renting homes in Tucson, Ensenada, and Antigonish did provide interesting cultural opportunities and that I would like to integrate occasional home-rentals into our travel style in the future, we do plan to get back on the road in a more full-time fashion next spring… with baby in tow!

Big Blue parked at our rental home in Ensenada, Baja California, Mexico, where we finished our conversion.

Overall, 2017 has been a year of intense highs and lows.  In most ways, nothing has gone according to plan – the year didn’t look at all like what I expected it would when I reflected, last New Year’s Eve, on what was to come.

Yet I wouldn’t change a thing.  Truly.  We needed to go through the lows of the bus conversion in order to have the amazing vehicle I now get to call home.  And I obviously wouldn’t change the baby growing in my tummy for all the travel in the world.  The trips down the east coast of the US and into Mexico that we had planned for this past fall/winter will simply be rescheduled until next spring.

I wouldn’t even change the fact that we’re spending winter in Canada.  We may be cold, but Bruno and I are happy.  We’re cozy by the fire in this little wood cottage, and we’re excitedly counting down the days until we meet baby.

Can’t wait to show you all more photos of our winter home in my next post. Stay tuned!

We hope that your 2018 is warm and cozy, too.

2017 Highlights

1. Finding out we were expecting our first baby in June. (Due date: February 3^rd)
2. Getting on the road with Big Blue in May.
3. Our 3-RV road trip to Nova Scotia with both of our families in August.
4. Our four days in Yellowstone National Park in May.
5. My Euro-trip with two of my best girlfriends in November.

Taking Big Blue (and ourselves) to Yellowstone National Park!

An epic girls’ trip to Spain and France!

2017 Biggest Challenge: Without a doubt, building our new home-on-wheels.  We won’t be planning on doing that again anytime soon.

2017 Biggest Lesson Learned: That life happens when you’re busy making plans.  Somehow, still, we’ve made tons of plans for 2018… We shall see which of them comes to fruition!!

What plans do YOU have for 2018?  Happy New Year, everyone!

My home town of Moncton has only a small airport.  When you arrive – on one of those tiny claustrophobic aircrafts – you debark directly onto the tarmac.  Every summer, as I’d step out of hours of recycled airplane and airport air, I’d take my first whiff of the fresh outdoors.

Cool, humid, and a delicious concoction of pine and salt water.

Home.

No other place in the world offered that particular melange of scents.  My family became so accustomed to me mentioning the smell of home that, in recent years, one of their first questions upon my arrival became, So…did you smell it?

This is me after I’ve just arrived home last summer. My parents are about to ask me, “So… did you smell it?”

This summer, during our cross-Canadian road trip, I learned something I probably would rather never have learned: my home town isn’t the only place with that scent.

I started catching whiffs of my beloved fragrance in Northern Ontario.  We were spending the vast majority of our nights boondocking in wilderness and our days driving through endless Boreal forests.  I smelled the cool fresh air mixed with pine that is exactly half of my hometown scent; each time, I stuck my nose in the air, sniffed like a hunting dog on the trail of its prey, and became totally and utterly disoriented.  I wasn’t home, so why was I smelling it?

Along Quebec’s St. Lawrence River I smelled an even more complete potpourri of my hometown scent.  This giant fresh water river juts out into the Atlantic Ocean, mixing more and more with the salty sea water the further east we drove.  At either side of the river were evergreen forests.  The days were warm and humid, and the nights refreshingly cool.  All the ingredients of the familiar aroma were there, and I greedily stole giant breaths of the familiar air.  Part of me felt indignant – how dare Quebec steal our unique combination of scents? – and the other part was conjuring such strong images of family and home that I had half a mind to make a run for home.

The scent of fresh pines along Lake Superior in Northern Ontario.

Along the St. Lawrence River, smelling home.

It probably didn’t help when Bruno said, “We can be home in two days if you’d like.”  We were now only 1000km away, after all.

In fact, I’d been battling the urge to beeline home throughout our cross-Canadian trip.  When I first caught sight of those red Adirondack chairs that are all over the Canadian National Parks, I felt a pang for home.  (I’d mistakenly thought those chairs only existed in New Brunswick cottage country.)

When I spotted a little wooden church school that could have been where my own grandmother would have been educated; when I stumbled upon a Highland Dance competition in Winnipeg that reminded me the Scottish heritage of the Maritimes; or when we overnighted in little marinas with wooden boats and little white wooden lighthouses, I wanted to race home.

Spotting the red adirondack chairs for the first time, at the very beginning of our road trip, in Saskatchewan’s Grasslands National Park.

The little church-cum-school that got my imagination wandering.

The highland dance competition we stumbled upon in Winnipeg.

When we spent a few days in Ottawa – where I had lived for a year back in 2010 – it felt sort of like home.  We visited the market where I’d purchased my fresh produce, wandered through my old neighbourhood, visited my old landlord, had dinner with old neighbours and friends, and visited tourist sites that were very familiar to me.  But Ottawa didn’t have the scent, so it wasn’t quite home.

Wandering around Ottawa’s tourist sites, which are all very familiar to me.

Buying produce at the Byward Market, where I always use to shop.

Hanging out with Bob, my old landlord!

And some of my lovely old neighbours!

When we passed through Plantagenet, the nothing town in eastern Ontario where my grandmother was born, I felt strangely connected to this place I’d never even been to.  We wandered through the cemetery, noting any tombstones that held her maiden name, and we chatted with locals about any living relatives in town.  But Plantagenet didn’t have the scent, either.

By the time we reached the Gaspé Peninsula, though, I may as well have been home.  The beaches, the humidity in the air, the fishing villages perched on the edge of the sea, the cottages.  I was seeing – and smelling – home everywhere.

Wandering past family tombstones in Plantagenet, a town I’ve never been to but am very much connected to.

The Gaspe Peninsula may as well have been home.

Cottages and fisherman homes at water’s edge, the smell of humid salty air.

It turned out that not only the smell I’d thought was unique to home wasn’t, but in fact, the charm I’d always associated with my little corner of New Brunswick wasn’t unique.  I felt disappointed, like my cross-country trip had somehow removed from me what had always been special about my own little corner of the planet.

Still, when we crossed the bridge from Quebec into New Brunswick, I felt a sort of homecoming.  I was welcomed with flat boardwalks along wetlands, scorching red sunsets over calm ocean water, and salty air giving my hair that familiar frizz.  Even the French was more familiar.

Acadian flags on white lighthouses.

Flat boardwalks along wetlands.

Sunset over the Atlantic Ocean.

When I saw my first Acadian flag, I fought the urge to race home.  When we joined the scenic Acadian route that boasts those same little red starfish signs just outside my family home, I had to stop myself from ordering Bruno to step on the gas.

See, as much as I wanted to be home, I also wanted to see my country.  I’d already learned so much from this cross-Canadian road trip – and been forced to redefine my idea of home – that I knew racing to my family wasn’t the right choice.  We would be there soon enough, but on the way, we had more places to see and so much more to enjoy.

So we did.  We watched a city parade in Bathurst, people from the floats throwing candy out to the kids as though Halloween had come early.  We spent an entire – amazing – day at the Acadian Historic Museum in Caraquet, learning about the history and culture of the Acadian people.  We drove out to the tip of New Brunswick – where there was, of course, a white wooden lighthouse – and overnighted on the wild and peaceful Miscou Island.

A parade in the northern New Brunswick town of Bathurst.

Eeeeek – we’re on the scenic coastal route that will bring us directly to my parents’ home!

The tip of New Brunswick on Ile Miscou.

I’m happy I took the time to visit a bit of New Brunswick.  I’m even happier I took the time to visit a bit of Canada.  We spent two months driving from Saskatchewan to New Brunswick, and I discovered and learned so much – that the Prairies were not the armpit of the country, that Canadian wilderness was the most wild of all, and that Quebec had so, so much variety to offer visitors.

Most of all, I learned that home isn’t home because of a certain scent or a certain charm – it’s home because of the memories it holds in my heart; because it’s my place of perpetual returning; and most of all, because it’s where I find the people I love.  Though I found similar smells and charms in other parts of my country, none of them holds that perfect recipe which makes home home.

Bruno and I have been home in New Brunswick for almost two entire months (barring a 10-day trip to Nova Scotia, which I’ll blog about soon).  Now, we’re getting ready to head out, on new adventures (which I will tell you about soon).

When we next return, I may not need to catch a big whiff off the plane to set my mind into home-mode.  The scent of my neck of the woods is nice, but arriving home at the end of a journey is even nicer.

Home, with our home-on-wheels parked out front.

Dear Totoyaya,

This morning, you left us.  I watched you turn down the road and out of sight, and felt the gravity of what Bruno and I had done.  We had sold you, our beloved home-on-wheels of nineteen years.  The vehicle that had transported Bruno for 400,000km around the world, had brought him to me, and had taken me along for the ride these past almost-five years – you were gone.

Totoyaya’s new owner getting ready to drive her home.

Our last look at Totoyaya… snif.

What Totoyaya has always done best.

I remember the day I met you, parked in a haphazard camping along the coast of Mozambique.  You’re the reason I noticed Bruno, really.  Your bright Petit Prince paintings and your one-of-a-kind camper cell were hard not to notice.  You drew me to Bruno, and through you, I heard his story.  It was because of you that I decided to join him: There’s an extra seat for you, if you’d like, he had said to me.

I remember the first night I slept inside you, in Chinhoyi, Zimbabwe.  You were cozy and comfortable, like a mother’s arms.  I prepared dinner under the protection of your awning as though I’d never not cooked here.  I bumped along at a snail’s pace down the wavy dirt track to Mana Pools National Park.  It was hot and we had to keep the windows up to protect ourselves from the tsetses; you didn’t have luxurious seats or luxurious air-con, but for some reason, I was totally and utterly happy.

The first photo we have of Totoyaya and I, in Zimbabwe’s Mana Pools National Park.

There’s an extra seat… I took it!

It didn’t take me long to make myself at home in Totoyaya.

I loved you early on, Totoyaya.  How could I not?  You gave me experiences I had only ever dreamed of before – private safaris, wild camps on coconut-tree-lined tropical beaches, nights under the stars in the middle of sand dunes, impromptu picnics wherever we pleased.  You gave me my dreams on a platter, gift-wrapped with the comforts I’ve always appreciated, like sleeping in my own bed, unpacking, cooking.

Totoyaya brought us up-close with the wild animals of Africa.

Ok, fine, this beach (in Oman) wasn’t coconut-tree lined.

Sitting on a sand dune gazing at the Red Sea off the coast of Sudan.

Surprising visitors at our bush campsites.

Picnics wherevery we pleased. (Bruno is very proud of his omelette, but let’s be clear – I did 99% of the cooking!)

I respected you, too, Totoyaya.  I knew you were Bruno’s first love, and for good reason.  You were strong, reliable, sturdy.  You’d brought him to places to which regular vehicles couldn’t venture.  You promptly started every morning with a consistently robust hum.  You and Bruno had major history.  I may have been the new, younger woman in Bruno’s life, but you would always be the one he pampered.  I wasn’t even jealous – I knew you deserved his coddling.

Bruno pampering Totoyaya.

a beauty treatment for Totoyaya in Sudan.

So much history. This is Angola circa 2003.

And Gabon, 1998.

Bruno’s first snowstorm with Totoyaya didn’t happen until 2015!!

We got so much attention during our travels because of you.  Sometimes it was slightly embarrassing to turn so many heads, and sometimes we were too tired after a day’s drive to entertain the ogling of curious locals.  But mostly, your existence led to welcome – and sometimes serendipitous – encounters with people.  The photo shoots with gas station employees on the Arabian Peninsula and the dinner invites with expats in Dubai; the hospitality Bruno received at seemingly every stop in Iran; even our bizarre afternoon with the tourist collector of Tiwi made for an amazing travel memory.

Expats in Dubai stopped us so often we ended up writing our blog address on Totoyaya’s side!

Maasais in Kenya make friends with Bruno’s niece (and Totoyaya) when she visits us.

These gas station workers insisted on coming out for a visit and photo when we parked overnight at their station (in the U.A.E).

These Acadians saw our for-sale ad online and drove out to meet us (well, really, to meet Totoyaya!)

Even the strange encounter with this guy in Oman created an amazing travel tale!

You took us on epic road trips.  Trail-blazing in Angola, off-roading through waist-high mud in Gabon, navigating through the high plains of Mongolia and Siberia, testing obscure and undocumented border tracks in Zambia, even driving down Route 66 a few months ago.

Wading across streams? Ain’t no thing!

Rocky roads? No problem with low gear!

Epic road trips sometimes mean epic roads.

Or epic tracks.

You took us to camping spots of unparalleled charm and beauty.  Parked in the middle of a baobab island surrounded by a giant dried-up salt pan.  Preparing dinner by the Zambezi River while hippos waltzed by and hyenas scurried past and lions roared in the not-too-far distance.  Sleeping in the desert just beyond the ancient pyramids of Sudan.  Gazing out at the sunrise from a cliff overlooking the Turkish Mediterranean Sea.  Trying not to fall asleep on an isolated nesting sea turtle beach in Oman.  Snorkelling among the coral reefs in the sea just beyond our private coastal bush camp in Djibouti.  Nestling into the lush coolness of date-palm oases in Morocco.

Breakfast with the hot-air balloons in Capadoccia.

Camping along the northern Basque coast of Spain with overlanding friends.

One of my earliest campsites with Totoyaya, in Botswana.

Another Botswana campsite (there were so many amazing ones).

A monkey-filled campsite in Kenya.

Because of you, we got to give Bruno’s niece, Lucile, her first taste of international travel.  I welcomed my best travel buddy on a camping road trip through Morocco.  Most importantly, we were able to share the road with my parents, who rented an RV and followed us around Morocco for a few weeks.

Camper vanning in Morocco with my parents!

A visit from my best travel buddy and her tent!

Meeting up – and sharing the road with – fellow overlanding friends.

A visit to Kenya from Bruno’s niece.

When we visited the fjords of Oman’s Musandam Peninsula, you were there.  When we searched for whale sharks in Djibouti, you were there.  When I experienced my first U.S. National Park, you were there.  You were the third member in our company – Bruno, Brittany, and Totoyaya.

Three’s company, too.

In the salt pans of Djibouti, you were there.

In the tea fields of Burundi, you were there.

In the oases of Morocco, you were there.

Even though there came a time when our love affair became fraught with complicated mixed emotions, I can never forget all that you taught me.  To slow down.  To do less, be more.  To really see the world around me.  To appreciate the little things.  To de-clutter my life.  To re-evaluate my priorities.  To live life fully.  To love fiercely.  And that experiences are worth more than their weight in gold.

Bruno and I loving and living our dreams!

Slowing down, and watching the world go by.

Being curious about the world around us.

To never stop learning.

I knew it was time for us to part – and indeed, I have wanted it for the past year – but I didn’t expect it to hurt so much.  No one ever told me that to achieve new dreams, letting go of one’s old dreams would be so painful.  We had spent so much energy in recent months organizing a life for ourselves that didn’t include you.  So when I cleaned you up for the final time before our buyer came to pick you up, and the tears streamed down my face until I couldn’t see and I was bawling on your floor – my floor – until Bruno came and held me in his arms and cried too, I was dumbfounded.

How can a vehicle – a mere object – cause me so much sadness?

Bruno and Totoyaya, Totoyaya and Bruno. I can’t even separate these two in my mind.

Early on, we were three.

Never far from one another. I can’t even express how Bruno must be feeling right now.

But you’re more than just a vehicle, aren’t you?  You’re the place where I found my life partner.  You’re the home and the life we created together.  You’re the vehicle of our dreams – literally – because you are the means with which we have pursued our dreams.

This morning, as Bruno explained a few last-minute things to your new owner, all these thoughts came flooding through me.  This thought, too: this may be the last time I ever see you, ever touch you.

And so, I circumnavigated you, with fingers lightly caressing your smooth, familiar surface.  Each step, I paused, and quietly thanked you for the gifts you’d given me.  Those thank-yous aren’t nearly enough, but, along with this note, they’ll have to be.

Bruno giving a few last-minute instructions to Totoyaya’s new owner.

Surprise – the buyer actually ended up being our original, Bostonian, buyer!

Totoyaya, you’re on another road trip now toward your new home on the east coast of the United States.  You’re going to live with a really nice man, a Land Cruiser lover, and someone who will treat you well.  You’ll travel a bit – probably not as much as you traveled with us, but you’re getting old anyway and deserve a nice semi-retirement.  You’ll be pampered, for sure, and maybe even get a little makeover.  Your history will be honoured, we know.

Bruno handing over Totoyaya’s keys to her new owner.

We love you, Totoyaya, and always will.

And you’ll never – ever, ever, ever – be forgotten.  Our beloved, forever-in-our-hearts, Totoyaya.  Our home.  Our family.

We love you.

Brittany and Bruno

In my family, this phrase is famous.  I said it once to my father, early on in my journey living with Bruno in his Toyota camper van.  He’d asked me how I – the girl with sixty shades of nail polish perfectly lined up in her adolescent bathroom – could live in such a confined space and like it.  He never forgot my answer, and used it countless times when describing my nomadic life to incredulous friends and family.

I may not have everything I want, but I have everything I need.

At the time I said it – and for much time afterwards – the phrase held true.  Totoyaya, and the life she offered, gave me everything I needed.

This is the life – on a private African safari with our very own camper van!

It’s been awhile, though, that my phrase no longer describes how I feel.

Bruno and I have long talked about the day we would upgrade to a larger vehicle.  We’d want a family and a bit more comfort one day.  That one day was always abstract; until it wasn’t.  Sometime last year, that one day became now.  As I type these words, it’s an urgent now.

I can’t pinpoint exactly when things changed for me.  I think it was more of a gradual evolution.  I have evolved over the years, as young people do, and my priorities have changed.  Life in Totoyaya still speaks to many of my core values – like living simply, having more time to enjoy the moment, and having the freedom to explore and learn from the wider world.

But as with anything, when you feed certain values, you prioritize them over others; and, if those other values are also important, you eventually feel imbalanced.  Our choices often have far-flung consequences that we cannot foresee until they are right upon us.

Enjoying the simple life at camped a public beach in Dubai.

In feeding my sense of adventure and simplicity, I have neglected my own comfort and health.  Allow me to explain:

Health has been a waxing and waning priority for me over the last dozen years.  When I met Bruno, I was at a waning phase; in the past year, health has become a top priority.  Eating healthy, home-made foods, doing yoga, and getting enough physical exercise have become essential aspects to my wellbeing.

I find them challenging to accomplish in Totoyaya.  My ability to get physical exercise is dependent on finding a space to exercise.  I can usually manage this, even with winter weather here in the U.S. (thanks to Planet Fitness), but there are often days on end when the weather is horrible, we’re in transit, and I’m stuck inside our tiny home without being able to release my pent-up energy (I’m a mesomorph and need to move a lot; and yes, I’m a chicken in bad weather).

Yoga has always been a struggle on the road.  If I’m in a city and can find a studio, great.  If I’m in a quiet, peaceful place where I can hide myself on my mat, great.  For much of my time in Totoyaya, we’ve been in regions of the world where I don’t feel comfortable downward-dogging it in public; more recently, we’ve been in Walmart parking lots.  After almost five years without one, I’m longing for a sacred space reserved for doing yoga poses and the opportunity to develop my practice.

It’s not easy to find a quiet, private place to do a bit of yoga. Even here, on the northern coast of Spain, I got caought on camera! (At least I was in the region of the world where it was ok to flash my belly!)

Lastly, while finding fresh food is easy on the road, cooking up delicious, healthy meals is not.  One day I’ll write a post about some of the techniques I use to eat healthy in a camper van, but today I must honestly confess that having no real kitchen makes this a challenge.  Now that the weather is cold and we’re often in parking lots, it’s even more difficult to cook, as my “kitchen” had always involved pulling a gas canister outside and cooking on our picnic table.

This is my kitchen. It’s AMAZING, when the weather is good and there’s space to bring out the picnic table.

Lack of comfort inside a four-square-meter sized space might be self-explanatory (I’ve had my fair share of friends and relatives remark this year, upon seeing Totoyaya face-to-face, that they don’t know how I manage to live in it), but, in fact, I didn’t feel that way until last year.  It’s no coincidence that my feelings have emerged as we began traveling in Europe and North America, regions of the world that have temperate climates and prohibitively expensive campsites.  Now, we spend many of our nights in parking lots and truck stops, which, along with the weather, has us taking our meals and spending our evenings inside.

I recognize we could solve most of these problems if we returned to the campsites of warm and sunny Africa, say.  The thing is, we want to travel in Europe and North America.  I personally just don’t want to be a claustrophobic blob while doing it!

Ahhh, the wonderful campsites of Africa. For $6, this one had a clear view of the Nile River, a swimming pool, electricity, and amazing shower and toilet facilities (so amazing that there were even massage tables in there).

I also recognize that some people travel in smaller, less comfortable vehicles than ours.  All I can say is kudos to you.  I no longer want to sacrifice my comfort and health to live this way.  I’m obviously not getting enough out of our travels to balance out the challenges because I have become increasingly resentful of Totoyaya.  She’s felt more like a prison than the engine to our dreams.  My claustrophobia has made me increasingly intolerant of the previously-minor inconveniences of living in such a small space – like finding clothes in cardboard boxes and foodstuffs under the bed; like searching for things in our totally impractical Engel box fridge, and like cooking the types of meals I want to cook (I love cooking, FYI) in a non-existent kitchen.

A shield from the wind because it kept blowing out my gas cooker. Very romantic, as long as it only happens from time to time!

Maybe I’m just at the 4.5 year mark now and my patience with the sacrifices I was once willing to make is up.  Maybe it’s just the region of the world we’re traveling in, and things will be fine again in Latin America.

Or maybe it’s that I’ve outgrown my home.  Having a haven has always been important to me (I’m a homebody), and I’ve always gone to great measures to create a pleasant, comfortable home for myself, be it a college dorm room or an apartment overseas.  I think I gather the confidence to propel myself out into the universe if I’m supported by a cosy home to retreat back to.

I used to feel Totoyaya was that haven – I no longer do.  My needs have outgrown her.

I think, also, that maybe the amount of STUFF I have has outgrown Totoyaya…

In my bad moments, Bruno wonders if this nomadic life is for me.  He wonders if I can live permanently on the road in any fashion at all.  Perhaps, in buying a new, larger vehicle, I am simply postponing the inevitable – that I need a larger home-base, perhaps with a routine and a community, and that no vehicle will be enough.

Admittedly, in my bad moments I have daydreamed about my lovely old apartment in Ottawa more than once…

I don’t feel that way.  When I imagine our future vehicle, it calms me.  It is large enough that even when it rains, we can spend the day inside without falling over one another.  Perhaps I’m baking a loaf of bread while doing some yoga stretches in the hallway, and Bruno is reading a book at the dining table.  I imagine us being autonomous enough that we won’t always have to worry about finding a place to sleep that has facilities.  We’ll have our own toilet, shower, high water capacity, and enough solar energy to keep batteries and laptops charged.  We’ll be able to park on BLM/Crown land without a second thought, or along that random side-road with a few RVs that we happen upon while driving from one place to another.

This is my shower in Totoyaya, which is GREAT if the weather is good and you can bathe outside.

In this future home-on-wheels, I’ll get the best of a home and the best of nomadic life.

I wrote this post a couple weeks ago, but I’ve been hesitant to post it.  I’ve re-read and re-written it a few time.  I don’t want it to come across as ungrateful or unconscious of my privilege.  I recognize that so many people in the world live in mud huts without beds or running water and survive on a single starchy meal a day.  Even in North America, people stuff themselves into haphazard apartments and live on food stamps.

I’ve decided to post it because I want to acknowledge two things, today.  First is that, when you’re born into a certain privilege, it’s hard to go backwards, to subtract, to live less comfortably (at least for more than a time).  In some ways, this is what my entire adventure in Totoyaya is – an effort to subtract.  I may just have subtracted slightly too much.

Secondly, I want to be honest with you.  I want to paint life in a vehicle as it actually is, not only as my Instagram photos show it as.  It would be totally phoney of me only to write about the awesome moments, and to leave out these, sometimes very momentous-feeling, challenges in between.  As I write this, I’m at a breaking point, and if I don’t share that breaking point, I may as well stop writing on my blog.

All this is why Bruno and I got an Air BnB apartment for Christmas, and another one for a few days in Las Vegas.  All this is why we’re trying – desperately – to find a new vehicle.  The narrative of Wandering Footsteps wouldn’t make sense if I didn’t share all this.

I got to live in a big, real, warm condo for a few days in Vegas… and cook in a GIGANTIC kitchen!

But let me finish with this: I have a lot to be grateful for (but living gratefully is a life-long process).  I have a roof over my head, a small but comfortable bed, my health, and a husband who would do anything to make me happy (read: give up Totoyaya).  I have the freedom to travel the world (on the cheap, but still), and the time to appreciate and enjoy life.  I have the opportunity to improve my lot in life when it’s less than perfect.

Best of all, I have the opportunity now – in my discomfort and dissatisfaction – to grow.  I am trying to lean into my negative feelings, to step outside them, and to breathe through them.  It’s the biggest challenge I have ever faced, but maybe I’m meant to learn something before that new vehicle comes our way (and during the long conversion that will follow!).  Maybe that’s why our vehicle search has been so frustrating.

Lean into the difficult moments, step outside them, breathe through them… be grateful.

I leave you with a poem from Rumi that was read to me at the end of a recent yoga class.  It resonated profoundly with me in light of all that I’ve just shared.  May it offer you, too, some glimmer of peace in whatever challenges you may be facing.

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Happy New Year from Bruno, Brittany and Totoyaya!

Happy New Year, friends!   I do love the start of a new year.  It’s an excuse to reflect on a parcel of time, to reminisce about the things that have passed, and to plan for the year at hand.  (Confession: I do make resolutions, even though I know they never work!)

Accordingly, it’s the time to write a 2016 Year in Review post, something that has become somewhat of a happy tradition here at Wandering Footsteps (for me if not for anyone else).  And so, in lieu of my Monthly Wrap-Up, let it be today a Yearly Wrap-Up.

Bruno and I rang in 2015 in the desert of Sudan, bush camping by sand dunes and snorkelling on the best coral reef I’ve ever experienced while awaiting passage on a ferry that would take us out of Africa and into the Middle East.  2015 then became a year of incredible travel statistics – 13 new countries, 4 continents, and 2 massive road trips.

This time last year we rang in the New Year with extended family at a luxurious villa in Morocco.  And somehow, 2016 has ended up being about those things – being in homes and being with loved-ones.

The start of 2016 – in a rented luxury villa in Morocco with extended family – set the tone for a 2016 that was very home-based and family-oriented.

While living in our house in France for three months, we had the pleasure of spending Easter with Bruno’s family, of photographing that moment, and of offering it to Bruno’s mom for her 80th birthday.

If you’ve followed Wandering Footsteps this year, you know that we haven’t been as mobile (read “exciting” – this is a travel blog, after all) as previous years.  2016 has involved a lot of living in homes-without-wheels (much to Bruno’s dismay!).  We spent almost three months living in our home in southern France, the entire summer at my parents’ home in New Brunswick, several weeks living at the home of our family friends in Toronto, returned to our home in France for three weeks, and just spent Christmas in an Air BnB cottage in Los Angeles (more on that in a future post).

While I have enjoyed getting a chance to build a routine, cook a lot, and appreciate the bit of extra comfort that living in a home allows, I admit that we may have overdone it this year with our home living!

An amazing moment in Morocco while camper vanning with my parents.

A family reunion this summer in New Brunswick, and the first time Bruno met a lot of very important people!

Along with our newfound domesticity this year, we did a lot of socializing (much to Bruno’s dismay, again – I have a feral man for a husband!).  We started the year off with family in Morocco, and then showed an old friend of mine what living in Totoyaya was like, also in Morocco.  This spring, we spent a lot of time with Bruno’s French family, and I also received a visit from an old English friend of mine.  This summer, I visited a couple friends in New York and Washington, DC, and then spent the summer and fall introducing Bruno to our long-time friends and family from New Brunswick to Toronto and down to New York City as well.  Last but not least, we returned to France to host Bruno’s extended family at our home for another mini family-reunion.

We’ve never had this social of a year, ever!  I am eternally grateful to all the people who hosted us and visited us this year.  It filled my heart with warmth and love, though, yet again, we may have overdone it slightly (can you tell we’re all or nothing people?).  I do expect that now that we’re in North America, the trend of seeing family and friends will continue in 2017.  Mark your calendars!

My friend Sahnah came to visit Bruno and I in Morocco. It had been a few years since someone pitched a tent beside Totoyaya. It was so good to get to introduce her to our lifestyle!

Bruno and I didn’t do nearly as much overland traveling this year as we normally do. This was our first night back on the road after a long hiatus, and we lucked out to find a quiet bush camp in a northern New Brunswick forest.

Though our 2016 New Year’s party couldn’t have foretold this, 2016 has, importantly, been the year of searching for a new home-on-wheels.  Things started when we put our Totoyaya up for sale in the spring, and then Bruno spent a challenging month in France studying to pass his truck driver’s license so that we could buy something larger than our current Toyota Land Cruiser.  Our search for the new vehicle began in earnest this fall in Canada and has continued, without success, here in the Southwest USA.  I hope that 2017 will bring us great luck in quickly finding our new vehicle so that we can convert it into a home-on-wheels and hit the road!  2016 has been fun, but both Bruno and I are eager to re-embark on our normal life.

Even though our year hasn’t involved as much travel as usual, it has still been a year rich of experiences.  I’d like to leave you with some of Wandering Footsteps’ 2016 highlights, challenges, and biggest lessons learned.

The first time the entire family comes together. Very exciting.

Getting a thorough education in Moroccan cuisine from my newfound Moroccan friends. The food is amazing, the friendship even better.

Highlights of the Year

Bruno got his U.S. visa!

This was the view from our Manhattan apartment when we visited my aunt Louise in New York City. Good thing we’re not afraid of heights!

If the past two New Year’s moments set the tone for the year, then I wonder what tone we have just set for 2017?  Whatever it is, I’ve learned this past year (well, ok, I’m still learning) to accept it with gratitude.

May 2017 bring you all many things for which you can be grateful – moments of pleasure and of stillness, opportunities for learning, and connection with others. What do you hope 2017 will bring your way?

Road-tripping down Route 66 was a fun way to make our way south for the winter.

Hiking through saguaro cacti at a National Park in the southwest of the US.

Mine was at a rest stop off the I-94 in Michigan.

Yes, you heard it.  Of all the places in the world we could have been, Bruno and I were in the United States during the 2016 U.S. presidential election.

I found out about Trump’s presidential victory at a rest stop in Michigan…

I expect that a few readers stumbling upon this blog post may have been relieved, or even ecstatic at the news of a Trump presidency.  My own initial reaction, however, was to want to turn Totoyaya – our camper van – right around and drive back into Canada.

Wandering Footsteps is almost never about politics.  I share my thoughts on the world here, but they generally revolve around food, travel experiences, special encounters, cool places, and road trips.  And even though this post is about Trump, it’s not about politics, really.  I’m going to refrain from explaining why I loathe him or why this election was so important to me, a non-American.  I don’t want to alienate or anger any readers here, and I assure any Trump-lovers that you can – and should –read this post until the end.

On November 9^th, 2016, I learned Trump would be president of the United States.  And, without dramatizing, my world came crashing down.  My emotions swayed from disbelief to hopelessness, from anger to grief, and from fear to hatred.  To me, the world felt over.  My faith in humanity was shattered.  Yet it appeared I was the only one to feel this way – all around me people were going about their daily lives, smiling, saying “good morning,” doing their groceries, driving their cars.  It was like I was floating in some alternate universe.

My emotions were magnified by several things: the fact that Bruno didn’t share my despair; that I had limited internet to help me feel connected through What’s App and Facebook to others that did share my feelings; and especially, that I was just beginning an extended trip through the United States.

When my initial reaction to the phrase, President-Elect Trump, was to want to make a giant U-turn back to Canada, I was mimicking the reaction of hordes of Americans who had managed to crash the Canadian Immigration website.

At the end of that most dreadful, emotional, and confusing of days, Bruno and I arrived in Joliet, Illinois and parked at a “travel center” (a large gas station where truckers can sleep) for the night.  It was dark out, and I was walking alone past a long row of trucks to the toilet.  And I felt scared, a sentiment I rarely feel on the road (even in supposedly scary places like Africa or the Middle East).  I felt scared because a man who has been accused of sexually abusing countless women had just been told by his country that not only was that acceptable, but that he was who people wanted as their leader.  What message had that sent to the many lonely truck drivers I was now walking past?

The row of truck drivers I had to walk past to get to the travel center’s toilets.

I admit that with my fear came a wave of prejudice.  I didn’t want to interact with a single Trump supporter.  My Facebook post, “If you helped Trump win the White House, you can feel free to unfriend me on Facebook and in life,” demonstrates that.  At least one person took me up on that offer, but it wouldn’t be so easy navigating through the United States with that outlook – especially on Route 66, our planned route south for the winter.

See, Route 66 travels through Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona before reaching Los Angeles.  In other words, it traverses Trump’s voting base.  I would be encountering the masses of gun-toting, immigrant-hating, steak-eating hillbillies, cowboys, and farmers that gave Trump the Whitehouse.  My travel plans couldn’t have come at a worse time.

Or was I set to travel down Route 66 at exactly the right time?

Is my journey down Route 66, which starts at this Food and Fuel stop, coming at exactly the right time?

After passing the line of trucks parked outside the gas station en route to the bathroom, I noticed Bruno chatting with a truck driver outside.  The burly white man had a long beard and a cap that read “God’s Not Dead.”  When Bruno joined me, I snarkily pointed out that surely that man had voted for Trump.

“Actually,” Bruno replied, “he told us tourists to be careful because a new president had been elected.”

I have spent the last week or so struggling to process the idea of President-Elect Trump.  I have been alternately denying, crying over, and ignoring the fact that Trump will soon be the leader of the most influential country in the world. Nine days later, I can say that I still have a long way to go in accepting the news.  I still can’t follow the news without getting stirred up.  I still can’t talk about Trump with Bruno.

But I can say this: it’s more important for me now than ever to travel through the United States.  If I leave, I write off an entire country and its people.  But if I stay, I get the chance to face my own prejudice.  I get a chance to be proven wrong, like I was the night I assumed the God’s-Not-Dead-man was a Trump supporter.  I get a chance to be different than Trump, to be guided by compassion and a deeper understanding of the nuanced issues facing this country and the world.

This past week hasn’t been easy my any means.  I’ve driven past more Trump/Pence election signs than I can count, seen more hunting gear, guns, and patriotic paraphernalia than I could ever want to.  I’ve read about the election in the Oklahoma Times and heard political updates on Fox News and from Rush Limbaugh.

I’ve also talked to a lot of Americans.  Admittedly, I am struggling to be as friendly and warm as I normally am (I still have some grieving to do, obviously), but I have been greeted almost always with warmth, interest, and friendliness.  Before we even open our mouths, people know we’re not from around here, but no one has made us feel unwelcome.

Lastly, I’ve picked up a book called Hillbilly Elegy, by J.D. Vance about the societal decline that working-class white Americans have experienced in the last few decades.  So far, it seems to be an insightful read.  I think it will help me to understand, just a little bit, why Trump’s ideas resonated to so many Americans.

The book I’m reading, which I hope will give me some compassion and understanding for a section of Trump’s voter base.

I don’t expect to ever see eye-to-eye with Trump supporters.  I fully anticipate that the next four years to be difficult to swallow.  I still have no idea what to do to help counteract all that Trump will set into motion.  But I feel that my trip down Route 66 – and indeed across America – is now more urgent than ever.

Because prejudice should never be met with prejudice, intolerance with intolerance, fear with fear.  I know now that it is through my travels in America that the seeds of anger that Trump has sown within me with be uprooted.

#lovetrumpshate

I’m here today to tell you that that was my first misconception.  In the three weeks that Bruno and I have been on the road in Canada, I’ve experienced just as many revelations as if I were traveling in the deepest depths of Africa.

My first revelation happened six hours after our departure from my family home in New Brunswick.  Bruno and I had driven along New Brunswick’s coastline and experienced how it was truly the province of water – its inlets, seaside, marshes, and rivers gave a holiday-feel to the quaint Acadian villages.  We were in the cottage country I knew so well.

New Brunswick, the province of water.

Cottage country in New Brunswick.

Our first picnic on the road again.

But then, we turned inland, and immediately the dense evergreen forests of northern New Brunswick crowded our view from Totoyaya’s window.  A few hours before dark, we found a dirt track that led to a small opening in the forest, just off the highway.  There were wild blueberries for the picking and more types of wild mushrooms than I’ve ever seen.  We wandered through the forest down to the nearby creek to wash in its cool clear waters.  We were having a grand old time.

And then I stopped.  I listened to a sound in the nearby brush.  And I pictured a wolf or bear or – more likely – a moose behind the bush, ready to pounce on us and eat us up for dinner.

“Bruno, what do we do if we run into a bear here?” I asked, concerned.

“Make yourself big and back away slowly, I think.”

“And, what if it’s a wolf?”

“Back away slowly… I think.”

“And… what if it’s a moose?”

Silence.

The revelation came them.  We were not only traveling in a new country but on a brand new continent with a totally new set of flora and fauna and therefore a totally new set of rules.  I didn’t know anything about the animals of North America – even though they were “my own” fauna.  I couldn’t recognize their scat or footprints.  I didn’t know their territory.  And, more eye-opening, I didn’t know how to react if I encountered them in the wild.

There was a lot to learn on the road in Canada.

We’d seen a moose for a moment from a far distance earlier in the afternoon.

And now we were seeing their scat… or at least SOME animal’s scat.

The clearing in the forest of northern New Brunswick where we camped for the night.

Spot the mushrooms!

So cute!

We spotted (and photographed) at least a dozen different types of mushrooms in the forest that day.

Wild blueberry picking!

The creek near our bush campsite where we bathed that afternoon.

After a quiet but near-freezing early September night in the forest, we continued driving toward the province of Quebec.  We passed highway signs displaying images of snow-mobile and four-wheeler lanes and moose crossings.  In the towns, we saw snow-ploughs parked in driveways and more signs for garage sales than I ever thought possible.

“Why are so many people selling their garages?” Bruno asked me in French.

And revelation two hit me.  These things – these moose-signs and four-wheeler signs, these snow-ploughs and garage sales – were not universally normal things, they were Canadian things.  Once again, Bruno was showing me the Canadian culture that was all around me and that I’d always taken for granted.

Moose crossing!

Snow-mobile and four-wheeler lane!

Though I’ve camped in forty-odd countries around the world, I’d never before camped at an official campsite in Canada.  Just before the Quebec border, along a charming little lake in the hills, we stopped to inquire at our first Canadian campsite.  Seeing us arrive in our little Toyota, the manager stepped outside and beckoned us to follow him.  We walked past motorhome after giant motorhome, greeting the retirees watering their plants and barbecuing hamburgers and corn on the cob under the shade of their giant gazebos.

The manager stopped in front of a large trailer.

“This is my trailer, but I hardly ever stay in it.  You’re welcome to stay here, or in one of our cabins, for the night.”

Bruno and I stared at one another, perplexed.  We had a place to stay, we explained to the man, in our Toyota camper van.

“I didn’t think you could sleep in there,” the manager replied.  “It’s so tiny!”

It occurred to me, in that moment, that camping in Canada – or indeed, in all of North America – would be an entirely different experience than camping anywhere else in the world.  With their giant motorhomes with water, electric, and sewage hook-ups, not only would we be looked at with a mix of indulgence and pity, but we would be forced to pay for services that our vehicle was not even designed for.  Revelation three was upon me.

Indeed, camping at a campsite in Canada has proven to be more expensive than in any other country Bruno has ever camped in – and there have been over 130 of them!  Were we to camp every night of the month here, we would have to spend more than the rent on a sizeable apartment, utilities included!  To my utter shock and shame, camping in my own country’s campsites was going to be out of our reach.

For now, I suppose that was fine.  After five months of daily hot reliable showers, I felt ok about bathing in creeks, with a bucket of cold water or a few wet wipes.  It was just the rules of bush camping – called boondocking, dry camping, or dispersed camping in North America – that Bruno and I needed to learn.

We arrived in Quebec with no idea about any of this.  After checking out yet another prohibitive campsite – where we were scolded for parking on the grass outside the campsite entrance because it belonged to a neighbour – we began searching for a discreet place to park for the night.  We found a dirt track that led up a forested hill, so we decided to explore on foot.  We hadn’t walked fifty meters before a lady was calling out to us from below.  It turned out we were on her property and she’d seen us from her security cameras.  Once she saw we weren’t hunters or thieves, she calmly explained that most of these forest tracks cut through private lands, and that, even if there were no signs or barriers, trespassing on these lands was illegal.

Well, I guess we’d learned one rule of boondocking.  There seemed to be a lot of rules in Canada (which would have been another revelation except I’d experienced this reality every time I’d returned to Canada from abroad for the past decade).

As we drove on, past a halte municipale (a municipal rest stop), we wondered if there were rules against camping there.  Again, we got out on foot to explore.  We found a quiet, hidden spot behind some trees that looked almost like a certifiable campsite, and even a few ashes from old fires.  It was getting late, there were toilets nearby, and we were tired and cold, so we decided to stay.  At least we would learn one way or another whether camping in municipal rest areas was allowed in Quebec.

Our “campsite” at the halte municipale in Quebec.

Doing a bit of late-afternoon yoga at our makeshift stop for the night.

We managed a cold but quiet overnight stay, and set out again the next morning.  The forests turned into lakes and then down into a fertile river valley and the mighty Fleuve du St-Laurent was upon us.  This fleuve would guide our path all the way to Montreal and beyond.

But first, we stopped in the highly-recommended Kamouraska for a bit of tourism.  The town had a cozy holiday-feel with stunningly restored century homes and cottages.  The colourful flourishes and attention to detail gave the village an old charm reminiscent of its days as Canada’s number one holiday getaway for European settlers.

After wandering around the town admiring the views of the water, the marshlands, the birds, and the homes, we settled for the night a few kilometers outside of town at a public beach along the St-Laurent.  We’d spotted a few camper vans at the end of this country road when driving into town that morning and popped by to enquire as to camping regulations in the area.  We learned we could camp overnight here without any problems, and that evening we saw that we were far from the only ones to have this idea on a beautiful late summer long weekend.  We witnessed a deeply relaxing sunset over North America’s most historically important waterway and I felt, for the first time, that Bruno and I were back to our normal nomadic life.

Welcome to the Fleuve du Saint-Laurent at Kamouraska, Quebec!

Cute old restored century homes in Kamouraska.

We’re not the only ones camped along the Fleuve du St-Laurent outside Kamouraska!

A lovely sunset along the St-Laurent from our boondock.

And an equally lovely early-morning breakfast.

The following day we followed the St-Laurent toward Quebec City.  Massive plots of farmland lay along the river’s edge, as roadside stands sold their fruit and vegetables and local cheeses.  There were you-pick signs for blueberries, strawberries, and apples (now at the height of their season), and bars laitiers (“dairy bars”) offering varieties of ice cream and milkshakes.  All along the way, the Fleuve du St-Laurent scintillated in the sun, its rugged green islands calling to mind the First Nations people that had lived off the land and water here.

We arrived in Quebec City, the provincial capital and a city I’d never visited before.  I gathered reading material to plan my impending visit.  In all the literature, Quebec City was referred to as la capital nationale, or the national capital.  I’d spent little time in the province of Quebec, and knew only from a distance of its French nationalism and desire for independence.   To see Quebec City referred to as the capital of the nation of Quebec was yet another revelation of how alive and engrained is the separatist movement in Quebec.

Bruno and I spent an afternoon wandering the streets of Vieux Québec, the historical part of the city.  As one of the oldest cities in North America, history seemed alive around each corner.  Even more interesting was the clear European influence around the entire historical district.  The narrow cobblestones lanes, the Victorian architecture, the café culture.  References to Paris and France were everywhere.  When Bruno and I stumbled upon Le Café de Paris, it all came together for me.  The Québécois seem profoundly proud of their French heritage, to a degree I’ve never seen by a formerly colonized people.

The infamous Chateau Frontenac in Quebec City.

Arriving into Vieux Quebec by bike, and about to enter its European-inspired streets.

Bagages de France shop in le Vieux Quebec.

Le Cafe de Paris, Vieux Quebec.

Two tourists in Quebec City for the day!

We’d experienced this French pride all week, as we were accosted multiple times each day by locals drawn to our French license plates or Le Petit Prince sayings inscribed on the side of our vehicle.  (We’d received so much attention and I’d been asked so many times if I were French that I was seriously considering adding a Canadian flag sticker onto the bumper of our vehicle!)  The Québécois affinity for the French makes sense – they’ve long been an independent nation, they’re surrounded by Anglophones, and their people are ethnically European themselves – but I’d never truly grasped this francophilia until traveling through this unique Canadian province.

I was born and raised in Canada.  Though I have spent little of my adult life in my home nation, I assumed travel here would be less eye-opening, less illuminating, less educational.

Instead, traveling in Canada has been just as – and perhaps more – revealing than travel abroad.  With my traveler eyes set on myself and my own culture, these last few weeks have been a thoroughly unique travel experience.

I can’t wait to see what else traveling through my home country with illuminate for me.